Finding Thea
by WarpedReflection
Summary: Thea - a 24 year old girl from the 21st century  London, gets hit by a car and is send 120 years back in time, and thus thrown into the lives of Holmes and Watson.
1. Down the rabbit hole

**(A/N): I do not own either Mrs. Hudson nor Holmes (sadly! ): ) sir Arthur Conan Doyle does/did (?) I hope you'll enjoy my story (please feel free to review!)**

**~PB**

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CHAPTER 1 ~ DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE ~

_**Thea ~ Thursday 14****th****, October 2010**_

My best friend, Tania, held a party that night, at her enormous (in my standards, anyhow) Baker Street-flat, and I had succeeded in dragging Iain along for once. Though he usually made up excuses to avoid parties, I didn't give him the opportunity to say no. We went by subway, and when we arrived at Tania's front door a little past ten, I quickly kissed him. "Thank you for coming along, Iain. I've been _dying _to let you meet my friends. You'll love them. Especially Tania – She's a darling!" He smiles in his unique slightly-shy way, which make me smile. "If it's too much, we'll just leave," I say reassuringly. Tania slams the door open in front of us, and squeals as she see me: "Thea!" She hugs me tightly, but gets distracted as she sees Iain next to me. "Thea's boyfriend!" she squeaks. She hugs him too, and then takes a step back to examine him. She nods appreciatively at what she sees, and sends me an envious smile. "Tania, this is Iain. Iain, this is my best friend Tania," I say – very happy, that Tania approves of my boyfriend. Tania closes the door behind us, and I can see that her apartment is filled with people. The music is pounding through the speakers, but one can still hear each other. "Has the whole gang come yet?" I ask Tania. "Ally, JJ, Lor and Dee are here. Marie's late, but she'll pop by later. I'm so glad you could come, T! I've missed you! But, go and have fun with your hunk of a boyfriend," she says, winking. "She's _very_ outgoing," I whisper apologetically to Iain. I grab his hand, and we walk closer to the music and begin to dance with the other couples. During the night I constantly bump into old friends that I _have_ to speak with, and before I know it, Iain disappears in the crowd.

I find Iain again later in the evening, standing with my friend JJ. I guess he has gotten a little too much punch (Tania is known throughout London for her wicked punch-making skills!) because he and JJ argue. "I already have apologized to you!" shouts JJ fiercely to Iain, who looks condescendingly at him.  
"What's going on here? JJ? Iain?" I ask confused. "That idiot," says Iain about JJ, "spilled punch on my new clothes, and then simply says: "sorry dude." It was an _Armani_! But I suppose someone like _you_ wouldn't know what an Armani was, even if it flew past you, and hit you in your stupid face?" I stare open-mouthed at Iain. I've never seen him like this before! "Do you know that jerk, Thea?" JJ asks indignantly. "He has spent the last ten minutes calling me all sorts of names! (actually "idiot" is the nicest I've heard yet!)"

"Just go, JJ. I'll take it over from here. Sorry," I reply. Iain glares at JJ, as he leaves. "Yeah, just run away, you coward! Who's gonna pay for my suit now?"

"What's going on with you, _Iain_," I ask. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Just a couple of glasses... If you ask me, Blockhead over there had it coming," he says. ""Blockhead" happens to be a very good friend of mine! He said he was sorry!" I change the subject. "You know what? I really dislike this new side of you," I proclaim harshly and go out to the hallway and retrieves my coat. I march out of the front door, without bidding goodbye to anyone. _Stupid Iain!_ I will _not_ put up with anyone – particularly not my boyfriend – treating my friends like that! I had thought that Iain was kind and nice (maybe a little boring and meek), but he clearly has more than one side to him. I had no idea that he was so shallow! I run across the road outside Tania's apartment building without looking where I am going.

I hear the sound of halting tires that slides over the rough asphalt. And the honk of a nervous car horn from far away, that warns me of danger. I ought to move, but I feel glued to the spot! I cover my eyes, as the cars approaching headlights blinds me...

CRAAAAAASSSHHH!

_**Holmes ~ Tuesday 14**__**th**__**, October 1890**_

I have hardly seated myself, before I hear a loud noise and rushes to the window that faces out toward the street. A young person of approximately 25 years lies on the middle of the road. Blood flows from the person's neck, face and leg. I quickly assess the gravity of the pending situation, but I also observe the irony of it all. Of course the patient shows up, just as the doctor has left. "Mrs. Hudson! MRS. HUDSON! Your help is required!" I yell to my housekeeper, while I trample down the stairs. She sticks her head out from behind the door that leads to the kitchen quarters, just as I'm at the ground floor of the apartment. "Good, you're ready. A young person lies splayed on the pavement just outside, who is about to bleed to death," I announce dramatically. "Take these money, hire a cab and drive to Dr. Watson's practice at once, and explain to him the importance of his hurried return. The poor person's life depend on you."

Mrs. Hudson seems completely flustered and runs out the door. I smile slowly. Maybe I exaggerated a little. My knowledge of medical science is not inconsiderable, so I should be able to hold up fairly well until Watson returns. I rush out of the door, and approach the wounded. A cab is heading towards the figure at a high speed, so I jump out in front of the cart, and wave with my arms. The cab turns sharply, and the driver utters an Anglo-Saxon oath worthy of a sailor.

I turn toward the young – lady, as it turns out – and delicately takes her in my arms, and carry her up the stairs to the living room.


	2. Who are you?

**(A/N): First of all, I would like to apologize to anyone who might happen to stumble upon my story. English is my 2****nd ****language, so I'm afraid you'll have to live with my poor grammar and tense-shiftings Ö (I hope ****I haven't scared you off! :) ****)**

**Thanks for reading! **

**~PB**

**Disclaimer: I do not own either Holmes, Mrs. Hudson nor Watson. No profit is made.**

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CHAPTER 2 ~ WHO ARE YOU? ~

_**Thea ~ Tuesday 14****th****, October 1890**_

I lie on a very uncomfortable sofa. It is certainly not the one in my apartment. But if I'm not in my apartment, then, where am I? I open my eyes and sit up straight. Ouch! I feel a throbbing pain in my head. I bring a hand to my neck, to feel how big the damage is. My hand is covered in something wet and warm, flowing out from the back of my head. Blood. What happened? I remember that I was at Tanias party, and I remember the oncoming car and the blinding lights ... but what was I doing in the middle of the road? And where am I now?

I'm lying in what looks like an old fashioned room. There is a lighted fireplace, with letters hold fast in the wood by a dagger. Two comfy chairs on either side of the couch. A small table. Bullet holes in the wall shaping the letters V.R. What the ...? Is this a dream? As I turn my head, I see a desk with chemical experiments. Is this ...?

I must have hit my head harder than I had thought. I hear steps outside the door. I close my eyes, lay back on the sofa and pretend to still be knocked out.  
"Where is this patient, you spoke of, Holmes?" An unfamiliar voice ask.  
"I have placed her on the couch, in the gentlest position possible, considering her wounds," another voice says, and I hear a squeak, as the door opens.

Two men enter the room. I can hear them.  
"She is indeed truly done in, old friend. Call on Mrs. Hudson, and get her to bring me water and some warm towels-"  
The door opens again, and some china clink, water splashes. That Mrs. Hudson, whomever she is, can obviously read his thoughts. Spooky.  
"Ouch!" I exclaim, when someone suddenly daps my neck with a towel. It stings. I suspect him of using alcohol.  
Nicely done, Thea. You've blown your cover. Now they knows your awake ...

I open my eyes.  
I examine the man looming above me. He is a blondish, medium height man with a mustache. He's probably in his thirties. His worn medical bag stands beside him. "Do not be alarmed, madam. I am a physician. My name is Dr. Watson. How are you?" His eyes shine with genuine concern.  
How I am? Well, apart from the stinging pain in my legs and my aching head, then ... "Fine. I'm tolerable, all considered," I gesture at my legs.  
The doctor cleans my head wounds. The realization hits me like a fist in the stomach. Did he say Doctor Watson? And the lady was called Mrs. Hudson? VR spelled with bullets on the wall? Hvordan can it be?

"Doctor Watson?" I ask the man with a shaking voice. "Can you tell me where I am?"  
"Certainly, madam. I beg your pardon, for being so inconsiderable. You are at 221B Baker Street, at Mr. Sherlock Holmes' apartment. He found you, and had you transported here. I presume you've heard of him before?"  
Sherlock Holmes ? Yes I have heard about him ...

I'm considering what Dr. Watson has just said. Baker Street ... It fits with what I remember... I went from Tanias Baker Street apartment, got hit by a car, and then – then an employee from the Sherlock Holmes Museum, located farther down the street, _must_ have found me! Yes, it _almost _would make sense! And then the employees chose to stay in their roles as Sherlock Holmes-characters?  
I decide to play along with their pretence.

"Well. Yes ..." I straighten myself. I should not have done that. My legs hurt just as heck. "Ouch! But only through your stories, Doctor Watson. Are my legs broken? "  
He nods and smiles apologetically - as if it were his fault.

Watson examine my leg, cleans my wounds, and binds it with gauze.

"Have you succeeding in stopping bleeding yet, Watson? Ah, I see the patient is awake. I am Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, madam at your service, and you are ...?" A tall man says. He got black, smooth slicked-back hair in a well-fitting suit, who pretend to be Sherlock Holmes. I cannot help but think, that he looks very much like what I had imagined Holmes would have looked like. He is actually quite good-looking. Well-chosen actor ...

"Miss?" _Holmes_ repeats.  
"Oh. Sorry. My name is Thea Dawson. And who are you? "  
"I believe I just told you," the actor states impatiently. " I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes, "  
I laugh gloomily. "No, I mean who are you really? I have seen through your games! It's not funny anymore," I tell them. No response. Actor-Watson looks surprised at the guy, who impersonates Sherlock Holmes.  
I feel the smile, that usually accompanies a laugh, freeze on my face.

"Seriously: please stop. This is becoming pretty scary!" I look at them both. Again: no answer.  
"Holmes," Watson says to Holmes. "I think the young lady has hit her head harder than I previously imagined. Can it be memory loss, that causes her to hallucinate? "

"I'm ABSOLUTELY not _hallucinating_!" I shout angrily. "I just do not believe, that you are who you you say you are. That would be impossible."  
Sherlock Holmes seems surprised. He has raised one eyebrow. "Are you certain, that it is not merely _improbable_, madam?"

"Okay then, _Mr. Holmes_, then deduct something about me. Prove that you really are "The Great Detective"!"  
"Holmes ...," Watson says quietly. "I think it might be wisest if you postpone this "deduction" until tomorrow morning, the woman is _clearly_ -"  
"- Rubbish, Watson," Holmes interrupts. "Obviously she knows what she is talking about. She is merely confused. Of course I will comply with your request, Miss Dawson. "

Thanks, I mumble.

"Your name is Thea Dawson, you are in your mid-twenties (24, maybe 25 years old?) of Jewish descent. You are neither married nor engaged."

Holmes approaches the sofa and then circles, in order to examine me from all sides.  
"You are left-handed, write with blue ink, frequently plays the piano," he continues. "And as you just demonstrated to us, you have a great temperament. Your whole behaviour screams "youngest child." You have 3 siblings, if I am correct?" He formulates it as a question but does not expect an answer.  
How does man know all this? _Maybe they really are_...?  
He continues: "You have a nervous disposition, (note the state of the nails, Watson!) You are probably a member of the "suffragette" movement, since you – an unmarried woman – walks about in London (without chaperone, I might add) and even wearing men's clothes!" He pauses briefly for catching breath.

"Your accent clearly states, that you come from West End London, unless I'm much mistaken." I nod. He continues: "And now, let's talk about your accident. If it was an accident at all. It is a well-known fail, to form theories without sufficient data ... You have been hit by a vehicle from the left and thus broke your left leg. You were then flung across the street, landing head-first. It was that flight, that caused the minor scratches in your face. But ... What vehicle was it, that hit you?" He stops walking and just look down at me. "The marks on you indicates that you have not been hit by a cab. But what could it else be? An auto-mobile? In that case it should not prove a difficult task to locate the owner. There's no more than – perhaps – 1000 in the entire country... What is this nonsense I am speaking? The vehicle that hit you is larger by far and the tires too wide to be a regular auto-mobile. It is impossible. Unless ...," he stops completely, takes a pipe and stuffs it with tobacco on and puts it ponderously into his mouth.  
Watson looks questioningly at me. I shrug my shoulders in response. I can only try to guess what the strange man is thinking about. Or ... is the Holmesian pondering also just pretend?  
I _need_ to know it now.  
Is this a play, set up in my honour, or have something completely unthinkable happened to me? Something physically impossible? Something that nobody else has ever tried before?

"What year are we in, Doctor?" I ask Watson.  
He seems taken aback. "1890, of course! Did you not know?"  
I don't answer. "So before Reichenbach, that is" I mutter to myself.  
"Pardon?" Holmes ask with a raised eyebrow.  
"Nothing."

So far, Holmes have not said anything definite to _prove_ that I've...  
I must know what the truth is!

I turn my head and see a window. Perfect! I rise slowly from the sofa – ignoring Watson's protests – and force myself to the window and looks out.  
I see a street, which seems to be the Baker Street I know - but maybe it isn't? Thick smog hangs over the old buildings. I see men in suits and bowler hats walks around arm in arm with women in big elaborate dresses, dirty little boys run around selling newspapers and old fashioned hansom cabs driving down the cobbled streets.

Shoot! I've been sent 120 years back in time! To Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson! They are the real deal!

I can not stop myself from fainting.


	3. Not in Kansas anymore

**(****A/N): I do not own Holmes or Watson. Nor the quote from "the Wizard of Oz".**

**This entire story is dedicated to the best friend I could ever wish for, who aside from just being my friend also is a great inspirational source for me. The character of Thea Dawson is somewhat modelled on her :)**

**Thank you SO much for the reviews x)!**  
**~PB**

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CHAPTER 3 ~ NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE ~

_**Holmes ~ Tuesday 14th, October 1890**_

I have assisted Watson in moving the unconscious young lady to the guest room, and presently the Doctor and I sit in our comfy chairs in front of the heart. I've curled my legs under me, and relit the clay pipe, that was abandoned in the confusion of Miss Dawson fainting fit. "What make you of young Miss Dawson, Watson?" I ask my old friend. "She appears to me to be an energetic, honest, pretty, young lady. I can not possible imagine anyone wishing her harm. It simply _has_ to be an accident, that has occurred to our unfortunate Miss Dawson, although you _did_ express you doubt on the matter."  
"Watson, did nothing _at all_ about "our unfortunate Miss Dawson," strike you as slightly odd?" I ask taken aback.  
"What do you mean? Slightly odd? Oh, do you mean when she was incredulous in you and I being real? It's not that odd. She has probably just read my memoirs in The Strand, and thought we were fictitious. Do you not recall the incident last month, where the same thing happened?"

I grunt indignantly at the recollection. All this Strand business will soon become a great hindrance to my work. I frown silently.

"Or was it her peculiar clothing you meant, Holmes?" Watson ask confused.

I get a sudden urge to knock my head against a wall.  
_Watson, have you learned absolutely nothing of me in our many years of friendship?_

"My dear Watson, you are indeed right, that both points are mysterious. But that is by no means the end of irregularity. Do you not remember, that she had no idea which year we are in?"  
"Surely that is due to a loss of memory?"  
"I do not find it very likely, since she was able to recall her name. Reconsider the fact that she asked for the year, Watson. Would not your first impulse upon waking a strange place with memory loss be to ask for the date?... Hmm..."

I ponder for a while, until Watson awakens me with the request of accounting with the other irregularities I found with Miss Dawson. I indulge him – of course.

"First of all... What is a young, unmarried woman doing unchaperoned in London? In Baker Street? I should thing a lady with her Jewish roots, most likely would be forbidden to travel alone in London. That could be a possible explanation as to her clothes. A kind of simple disguise?" I paused briefly in order to welcome a new line of thoughts.

"Watson, do you not think her "disguise" a tad – how shall I put it – oddly chosen? If she was aiming to look like a man, then why dress so strangely? No hat, no walking stick, no waistcoat, big boots, grey trousers and a black coat? Curious. Besides, her hair was down. Tut tut," I shake my head at her foolishness. "By the way, Watson," I recalled. "I noticed a remarkable wear on her left boot. Without a doubt from a bicycle, but not a regular one. I have never seen anything like it, and I am myself quite an expert in the field. Do you recall my monograph about pedals wear and their different characteristics? No? Pity! It did receive a great deal of praise –"  
I'm interrupted by Watson, who utters a sound, that seems a mixture between a grunt and an uninterested "humph!"

"Very well, Watson. I understand a hint when I hear one." I laugh.

Watson smiles sheepishly. "Please proceed with your deductions, Holmes."

"The thing I find the most curious about this (in lack of a better word) _case,_ is this:" Watson is listening very intently.  
"When I found her on the streets, there was not blood around her. By "no blood" I mean, in comparison to how long she stayed unconscious on the street. And there were absolutely no signs ofcollision taking place. And additionally... No, I have to consider this thoroughly, Watson. There's something about that woman, that just does not..," I smoke my pipe with the vigour of a madman.  
"Leave me be, Watson. I need to think. I bid you goodnight."  
"Goodnight, Holmes. I'll return in the morning, in order to check on the patient."  
The Doctor leaves and I am alone.

_**Thea ~ Wednesday 15th, October 1890  
**__**2:05 in the morning**_

I awaken abruptly. I had the strangest nightmare ever! I dreamt that I in some way or other had wound up at the residence of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, and that I challenged Holmes to prove that he was who he claimed to be. What a silly dream! Definitely no more ice cream for me, just before bedtime. As my eyes become more and more adjusted to the dark, I can see the room I'm sleeping in.

This isn't my apartment. This isn't Iain's apartment either. It's not even Tania's.  
Where am I?

I glance down at myself, as I get a disturbing thought.  
I've been dressed in an old-fashioned nightgown.  
_It wasn't a dream_. How on earth...?

I need to scream. Now! I put my fist in my mouth, to muffle my scream, and bites as hard as I can.  
Definitely not a dream. Not when pinching usually does the trick.  
I can see light through a crack in the door, and a smell I'm not accustomed to (pipe tobacco?) fills the air pleasantly.

But still. I'm frightened as hell!  
As I lay back down on the bed, breathing deeply to calm my self, I'm reminded of Dorothy in _The Wizard of Oz_. So this is what she felt like.

Thea, you're not in 2010 anymore.


	4. Truths and lies

**(A/N): I don't own Holmes, Watson or Mrs. Hudson :(  
****You're always welcome to leave a review – they make my day xD**

**Thanks for reading!**

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CHAPTER 4 ~ TRUTHS AND LIES ~

**_Thea ~ Wednesday 15_****_th,_****_ October 1890_**

I am awakened by someone knocking on the door of the guest room, in which I sleep. A short, elderly lady with a friendly face enters. It must be Mrs. Hudson, the housekeeper! The housekeeper carries a tray with a cup of tea and a plate with breakfast on it.  
"Good morning, miss," she says happily, and smiles at me. "How are you this morning?" She nods at my bandage-wrapped head.

"Much better now, Madam," I reply politely.

"Good. I've made some breakfast for you. I have also taken the liberty to hang a couple of my daughter's old dresses in the closet, you can have, if you want. That way you at least won't have to walk around wearing your ruined men's clothing, until you're healthy enough to go home."

_Home_. It may take a long time, before I can return home...

"Thanks," I croak.  
Mrs. Hudson smiles warmly, and leaves me alone with my breakfast.

**_Holmes_**

"_Is Holmes still asleep, Mrs. Hudson? And is our patient awake?_" I hear Watsons distorted voice ask trough my wooden door. "_Mr. Holmes is still asleep, Doctor, but the girl is awake. I servered her breakfast about half an hour ago. I'll go in, and check on her now,_" says Mrs. Hudson, and shortly after I hear a door slam. I put on a dressing gown, and tightens the belt while I go out to meet Watson.

"Good morning, old friend!" I say jovially, and pat the retired military doctor on the shoulder.  
"Good morning too you as well, Holmes, even though it's nearer mid-day, than morning. It's almost 10 am!"

Jabba jabba jabba jab.

In a way, I am glad, that he has moved out. I miss him of course, but I am glad that he has found a wife to preach to instead of me:  
'Holmes, you should not take so much cocaine, Holmes, you should not shoot indoors, Holmes, your playing the violin at unusual times disturbs my sleep, Holmes, you really ought to ...'

"... Go to bed sooner, Holmes."  
I smile quickly to Watson, and turn towards the door to the guest room with perfect timing.  
Mrs. Hudson comes out of the room with an empty tray. "Doctor, she is ready to see you now."  
Watson enters the patient's room, and I return to mine to get dressed.

_**Thea**_

I limp after Dr. Watson to the living room. He offers me a seat in one of the comfy chairs by the fire. I look at Mr. Holmes, who sits opposite me in the other chair. He scrutinizes me, but I seat myself (somewhat self-consciously) in the chair.

Both Dr. Watson and Holmes are silent – apparently waiting for me to talk.  
But I hesitate.  
"Do not fear unfair judgement by the Doctor and I. We will listen to anything you have to say," Holmes says encouraging.

"Mr. Holmes, you must understand," I begin. "You must understand, that I feel terrible to intrude on your hospitality like this. I am very grateful for everything you and Doctor Watson have done for me, but most of all I'd just like to go home." Holmes closes his eyes, leans back and concentrated steeples his fingertips.

"Frankly, I have no idea why I'm here," Watson looks triumphantly at Holmes. "The last thing I remember was visiting my friend, who lives on Baker Street, then crossing the road without looking out, and then just – pain." Watson pity me, and nods understandingly.  
"I can't remember anything else. I'm very sorry," I lie through my teeth.

At this Holmes moves suddenly. Or rather: his eyes opens and moves suddenly.  
He looks me straight in the eye and I feel like his piercing grey eyes can see right through my lies, and into the depths of my soul. It would not surprise me if they actually can.

Dr. Watson gets up not very long after. "I'm afraid I have to take my leave now, old chap. I have patients to attend," Dr. Watson says til Holmes. "Miss Dawson, your leg is improving, but you'd better stay here, until it Is completely healed." He looks at Holmes. "Unless, you have a better suggestion?"

Holmes shakes his head, and I smile at him. "Thank you," I say. Could that be a ghost of a smile on his lips?  
"Holmes, will you see me out?" then he turns politely towards me, and bids me farewell with a bow.

_**Holmes**_

"Her memory will return in time, but you cannot put to much pressure on her. I still have no inkling as of how hard the hit to the head was, but her concussion seems quite extensive. Treat her gently, Holmes."

I nod in fake agreement with his diagnosis.

"Give my best to Mrs. Watson," I hastily add, as he exits the door.

When I re-enter the room, I sit in the chair opposite Miss Dawson again.  
"Now, with Watson out of the way...," I say, and rubs my hands together. "Miss Dawson, I perceive you are no fool, so I will speak bluntly: there are several matters, which I would most appreciate if you would care explain. I _do _have several theories that could explain them – each theory more fantastical than the previous – but I need to know the truth, Miss Dawson, in order to provide the help that you so obviously need. So, be so kind as to answer my questions truthfully."

_**Thea**_

I scoot nervously in my chair. How would he react if I told him the truth?

"I'll answer truthfully to your questions, Mr. Holmes, but I sincerely doubt that you'll believe me. I scarcely believe what has happened myself! I've tried to pinch myself several times, but I just don't wake up!" To make my point clear, I pinch myself in the arm. _Auch_.

"Is that, if I may enquire, the reason why you chose to purposely lie to the good Doctor and I?"  
Holmes smiles kindly and calmly, but his eyes betray his excitement and eagerness. I find it quite unnerving.

I suddenly feel the presence of a lump in my throat. I nod.  
"Pray, Miss Dawson, what do you think hit you?"  
"A car, I think... an auto mobile, as you call it," I answer him.  
At this Holmes raises his eyebrow.

"As _we_ call it?" he repeats, and looks at me enquiringly. "It has not escaped my notice that you speak rather strangely at times."

_Why, thank you!_ I can not help but think sarcastically.

"Please describe one of these "cars"."  
"Big and square, has 4 broad wheels, a steering wheel, a brake, a radio, a glove compartment..." I look questioningly at Holmes.

He nods.

"Why do you find it likely, that a "car" hit you?"  
"In the London where I come from, practically the only things on the streets are cars. I got – well – I got hit in the year 2010. And when I opened my eyes again, I found myself in -1890, right?"

Holmes confirms the year.  
"I don't know how it happened, or how it even can be possible, but -"  
"Have I understood you correctly, Madam? Do you seriously alledge that you come from the future? 120 years from now?" he ask sarcastically.

"-... yes," I say very weakly.

He looks as if he's on the verge of saying something, but refrains.  
"I have to think this over," Holmes merely states instead. "Feel free to browse the bookshelf, or do what ever you might wish, but stay away from me and stay away from my desk. If you are bored, then by all means go down to the kitchen and annoy Mrs. Hudson," he waves me off with his hand, and retires to a chair by the window with his pipe.

I feel dismissed and _very_ confused!


	5. The client

**(A/N): Still: me owney naught!  
****Some actual plot *gasp!* (^^,) begins to unfold in this chapter ~ **

**As always; Thanks for reading!**

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CHAPTER 5 ~ THE CLIENT ~

**_Thea ~ Wednesday 15_****_th, _****_October 1890_**

I'm sitting on the sofa in the living room, after having tried to read at least 15 different of Holmes' books, explored the entire apartment (except Holmes' room, Holmes' desk and the insides of the fireplace,) and talked for ages with Mrs. Hudson (by 'talking' I mean _eating_ the many meals she made me, because found me to skinny.) I occasionally glance behind me at Holmes, still curled up in his chair, who occasionally glance back. Every time our eyes meet, I sense my cheeks turning red with embarrassment. I have absolutely _no freaking idea_ of what he thinks of me! And it annoys me to no end!

As I sit in my own thoughts, cursing under my breath at the fact that I'm left at Holmes' mercy – knowing that my possibly only chance to find a way home is through him! – I hear someone clearing his throat, and I find myself looking up at Holmes' unreadable face.

"Miss Dawson," he begins, eyeing me curiously, as if I have changed into a lizard with four heads since my confession (at least, that is what I _think_ his look means) "It is a very outlandish claim, you have uttered to me. Whether or not your claim is true, it still proves quite a novel conundrum," at this he smiles. "I promised to listen to you without judgement – well, so I have – and I will form my opinion of this matter according to where the evidence may point." I sigh with relief.

"You do not appear to me as untrustworthy, quite the opposite, in fact. And so far, I have to say, several things to do with your _accident _seems to co-operate with your tale."

"Like what?" I ask curiously. Perhaps whatever-it-is can tell me something of my "travel."

"There was basically no blood around you, when I found you," Holmes says, monitoring my reaction closely.

"No _blood_? But... Dr. Watson said I had lost a great deal!" I ask surprised. A sudden thought strikes me. "Mr. Holmes? Can it be possible, that some of my blood might have, you know, _stayed_ in 21st century?"

Holmes doesn't seem surprised. "Presuming _travelling in time_ is indeed possible, then the thought that some of your blood stayed behind in the future, does not seem too improbable."

I nod.

"Miss Dawson, since you are to remain here for an uncertain amount of time, I will look into your _claim_, but," he pauses. "I think you might be better off, if you did not tell anybody but I about it. Not even Watson. Others would only think you mad, and as for Watson... well, he would write yet another ghastly story to _the Strand_."

_Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Time-Travelling Woman_, I can't help but imagine as a possible title for Watson's account of my current situation. I chuckle.

Holmes plays his violin by the window in the afternoon.

I've by chance come across Lewis Caroll's _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ in his bookshelf, and am now flipping through the pages, in search of how Alice returned home. I know she went into Wonderland through the rabbit-hole, but how she went back, is unknown to me.

Mrs. Hudson suddenly enters with a tea-tray. She has a sort of letter on the tray as well. "Mr. Holmes, a telegram has just arrived for you," she says. I look curiously at him, as he reads it.

He quickly jots a few words in response. "Bring this to the messenger boy," he orders, handing the note to Mrs. Hudson. She nods and leaves. "What was that?" I ask. "A client," he answers bluntly. "A new one?"

"Indeed."

"When will he arrive?"

"At 6 o'clock," he answers.

At 6, Holmes is in quite a state of expectation, and diverts himself from waiting, by pacing the room with his hands folded behind his back.

A couple of minutes after the grandfather clock has stricken six times, Mrs. Hudsons knocks on the door, and leads a young man into the room.

He's a fairly tall, brown-haired man, with dark rings under his eyes, suggesting that he has had many a sleepless night recently.

"Mr. Leroy," says Holmes, and quickly introduces me to him. "Pray, sit down and tell us about your worries."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," he sighs, and seats himself. "3 days ago, Mr. Holmes, Miss, I had been in the opera at Covent Garden with my fiancée, Miss Julia Vainwright, who is the daughter of the American ambassador. The evening went as planned, but on our way home, she disappeared in the fog! I've searched for her everywhere, talked to her parents and then talked to my housekeeper. But she had not seen her either! Then Mr. Vainwright contacted the police, and sat Scotland Yard upside down.

Inspector Lestrade mentioned your name during the investigation, Mr. Holmes, and that is why I have come to see you. "

"What is your line of work?"

"I work as a junior employee at Mortons shipping company in the accounting department. It's not a very well paid job, but it's an acceptable match for my Julia."

"Hmm. What did you see, and when did your show end. Oh, and do you remember anything remarkable – or out of place – happening during the show?"

"We saw the 7 o'clock Faust and it ended half past nine. Mr. Vainwright and Inspector Lestrade have both asked me that same question. I have thought very hard about it, but the only thing that I can possibly remember, besides the show, was an old, filthy beggar outside the opera, which Julia – Miss Vainwright, that is – gave a few pennies to, although I advised her not to. You never know what such a scoundrel might spend it on!"

Holmes chuckle quietly, but as his guest notice it, he abruptly stops. Holmes pace with firm steps toward some maps, coiled up, in the corner of the room.

"Show me, where she approximately disappeared."

Mr. Leroy points at a location on the map – about 300 feet from the opera.

"Where were the beggar, then, sir?" I ask to get the facts straight.

He points once more on the map. " Do you think that the beggar might have something to do with it?"

I shrug my shoulders. How should I know?

"I doubt it," says Holmes briefly, and smiles quickly.

"Is there anything you can add, that might have any relevance to the investigation?"

Mr. Leroy shakes his head.

"In that case I will bid you goodbye. I will look into your case, and getback to you," says Holmes and shoos him out the door with an elegant flap of the hand. Mr. Leroy seems surprised, but merely nods and leaves.

Holmes sits far back in one of the chairs by the unlit hearth. He fills his pipe with tobacco, and place it in his mouth. I stand beside him, but just as I'm about to speak, he stops me with a raised palm in the air: "Leave me in 50 minutes," he says. I stamp my foot discontented, and limp determined into the guest room and slam the door behind me.

50 minutes later, when Holmes' grey eyes finally looses their foggy, thoughtful look, I'm sitting in the sofa, reading today's issue of _Times_.

"Now?" I ask.

In stead of answering my question, he jumps straight into explaining.

"This is not the first case of this nature, I have been presented to recently," I toss the newspaper away, and lean myself interested forward.

"I was offered a strikingly similar case last week. The other victim was also the daughter of a powerful man, and she disappeared into thin air as well," says he.

"Has any ransom been demanded?"

Holmes' eyes light up. "There was an ad in _Times_ under the Agony Column on the fourth day after the disappearance. That is, two days ago. Here," he hands me a two days old newspaper, he picks up from the floor.

He shows me a 3 lines reader-ad:

"To the relatives of Mary Ashton:

5.000 pounds in a bag, handed in at wharf number 5, storehouse 13, on the 16th at 9 pm.

If you want to see her again, bring the money."

"That's already tomorrow. But why choose a wharf? Is she kept captive there, or, do you think they have a ship ready as a means of escape?"

He nods at my line of thought.

"And why are they keeping Miss Ashton for so long? Would it not be more convenient fot them to keep her in 4 or 5 days? Why a whole week?" he ask to no-one in particular.

"Maybe they have a deadline?" I suggest.

"Or maybe they are blackmailing more than one family? If we presume that Miss Vainwright was kidnapped by the same men who kidnapped Miss Ashton, then the Ashton and Vainwright family might not be the only family who has lost a daughter to these men?"

Holmes shakes his head.

"I made enquiries at the Yard in the first case. If others have been blacmailed, then they have not reported it to the police," he says dimissingly.

I suppose, this is not the way to find clues.

"Do you think Mr. Leroy and Miss Vainwright was followed to the opera?"

"Yes! Certainly! It's hardly by coincidence that the lady was kidnapped," he says scornfully.

"But you don't think that the beggar is a suspect? Why?"

At these words, Sherlock Holmes burst into violent laughter.

Frankly speaking, I don't see anything amusing about two girls in danger – but against my will I feel a smile forming on my face.

"Because, Miss Dawson, _I_ was the beggar," he says with a crooked smile.

I chuckle, and ask:

"One of your famous disguises, I presume? But why?"

"In connection with a completely different case entirely," he dismisses me. "What Leroy said was true, Miss Vainwright did give a penny or two to a – believed she – suffering personage, and then go into the foggy night with her fiancée- arm in arm, I might add! They seemed to be on friendly terms."

"That doesn't clear Mr. Leroy of suspicion entirely. He might have had something to do with the kidnapping," I claim.

"I _honestly_ had no idea, that you were so suspicious, Miss Dawson," says Holmes teasingly.

That man's constant change of mood is pretty disturbing!

"Well, I'm afraid so, Mr. Holmes."

He smiles and nods.

"Wait a minute! Mr Leroy works for a _shipping company_, doesn't he? Then he must be connected with the wharf in some way or other?"

"It's a distinct possibility," says Holmes, and frantically search the room for the calling card he got earlier. "I will obviously make enquiries at his company. But he does not appear to have any connection with the other disappeared lady. Hmm."

"I suppose we have to find it, then," I mumble. He grins.

"Make Mrs. Hudson prepare your supper," he says, approaching the door.

"What! Are you leaving _now_?"  
"Indeed."  
"But...-"  
"A bob-bob-bob! No buts."  
He shuts the door on the way out.  
I hear his footsteps descending the stairs.

Oh well...


	6. The case

**(A/N): I don't own Holmes, Watson or Lestrade**

**Sorry for the long wait, but I have been insanely busy with Christmas coming up, and all... Alongside heaps of homework :( But – anywho – here is chapter 6 xD**

**All the favs and story alerts help me to keep updating regularly... Thank you!  
****(P.s. **_**Pleeeease review! I looooove reviews!**_**)**

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CHAPTER 6 ~ THE CASE ~

**_Holmes ~ T_****_hursday 16_****_th _****_of October 1890 ~ approximately _**_**7 am**_

The newspaper boy is late! I've pulled my pocket watch out, and am starring fiercely at the three hands. 2 minutes and 46 seconds late. Come on, come on, come on! I take a deep breath, and snap the watches lid back on. _Clink_. The coin that hangs from my watch chain, scrapes the lid, and produce a soft metal-against-metal sound. I look hard at the sovereign given me by Miss Adler – _Mrs. Norton_, I remind myself, _again_. Its appearance have not changed, but have yet been my companion for many things. I sigh involuntarily. I wonder where Irene might be now.

A sudden cold washes through my body. I position my crestfallen-self at the window, and picks my Stradivarius up and begins to play a slow, melancholy tune, to mirror my sudden mood the midst of Beethoven's fifth, I am interrupted by the sight of a young lad with a newspaper bag under his arm, hastily scuttling down Baker Street. I run down the stairs, and opens the front door in front of the boy, and snatch the newspaper from his hand. I hand him some coins, and closes the door again in his face.

I quickly flip through the newspaper to the Agony Column.

"To the relatives of Julia Vainwright:  
5.000 pounds in a bag, handed in at wharf number 5, storehouse 13, on the 19th at 9 pm.  
If you want to see her again, bring the money."

I feel my predatory smile broaden. This is the lead, I have been waiting for. I run with newfound energy up the stairs, and to Miss Dawson's door. I knock a loud rhythm on the door.

_**Thea**_

I open the door, and find myself sanding face to face with Holmes. "If you were interested in the developments of my case?" he ask. I eagerly nod. I wonder which developments that might be?

"A new ad was in today's edition of _Times_. This time about Miss Vainwright. The same procedure as the previous."

"Holmes? Have you noticed, that it never says that the relatives aren't allowed to contact the police? Are the villains just cocky, or are they convinced that they're hidden so well, that the police isn't able to find them?"

Holmes is leaning against the door frame, with his arms crossed.

"I do not know what your knowledge of the 19th century is, but _believe me_, not all of the Scotland Yard police force is even remotely mentally acute" he chuckles cynically.

"Oh, I... see," I say.

"But I think we can safely assume that this is a group of professionals. They are certainly led by a profes – professional criminal, who is the mind behind the crime," he says. I briefly wonder about his uncharacteristic stuttering, but then turn my focus back on what he says. "We can deduce this from the purely professional approach, and the minimal amounts of errors they have made..."

"Wait. Wait. Did you say "errors"? Which errors? Did you find them during your escapade last night?"

"Ah, yes, I have not told you everything. Come along," he leads me to the living room and "updates" me.

He tells me of the enquiries he'd made at Mr. Leroy's shipping company, and how he was told by Leroy's colleagues, that Mr. Leroy is a very respectable and well-liked man, with nothing against him. The shipping company itself, did not seem suspicious, but among his group of petty criminal friends, he'd discovered that the company was in financial trouble, and recently had begun to recruit shady people to perform shady – although unknown – activities. No-one had been explicit as to the nature of these shady activities, but there had been rumours in the criminal underworld of robberies and the likes.

Is the company in such a need for money, that they would go from petty theft to kidnapping and extortion? Holmes is not convinced.

Holmes also informs me, that no-one was able to tell him the name of the company's owner.

"Did you discover any connection between the shipping company and the Ashtons as well?"

"What could possibly be the connection between the daughter of a Member of Parliament and a shipping company, that seems respectable and prosperous on the outside, but in reality is bordering on bankruptcy? The families Vainwright og Ashton knows each other peripherally, that is, they have heard of each other, but has no relations. I will call upon the Ashtons later, in order to enquire to today's plans, and meanwhile – ask them whether or not they are familiar with the shipping company _Mortons_."

He looks as if he bordering on disappearing into his own thoughts again. I have to stop him!

"Take me with you!" I exclaim suddenly and loudly.

"Excuse me?"

"Take me with you, when you visit the Ashtons. Please? What else am I to do? Embroidering cushions with Mrs. Hudson?"

"But.. It certainly would be looked upon as odd, where you, a woman, to accompany me – and – in any case, your leg is far from healed...," Holmes try to dissuade me.

"If my sex is a problem for you, _Mr. Holmes_,then borrow me some male clothing (that, I presume, should prove no trouble for you, considering your infamous disguises!). If my leg is a problem, then borrow me a walking stick!" I almost shout.

"It could be dangerous, woman!"

"I'm an adult!" Holmes' grunt in amusement at my childish outburst. I ignore him, and continue calmly. "Please let me accompany you as one. You usually brings Watson, don't you? Just because your "society" expect women to stay indoors doing _nothing_, doesn't mean I'm contended with doing so, just because _that is the way it is done._" I shudder.

Holmes considers my request. "Have I understood you correctly? You would like to thread in Watson stead as my temporary companion?"

I shrug and nod.

How could I have guessed that Holmes would be so literal about it?

_**Thea ~ 1 in the afternoon**_

The disguise is unbearably hot. The tie is bound very tight against my throat, and I loosen it slightly. Holmes looks disapprovingly at me, shakes his head and 'tsk's.

We are standing in the Ashtons hallway, waiting to be led to Mr. and Mrs. Ashton.

The butler returns and leads us to the living room. "Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson," he introduces us with the classic English butler-drawl. We're shown into a cosy, ( but very ugly,) green-walled room, wherein to emotionally drained persons sits on an old fashioned couch. A blond, middle aged lady and a grey-headed man. Mrs. Ashton wrings her hands in her lap, with a vacant expression on her face.

Holmes nod courteously and I do the same.

"Mr. Ashton, I trust you have read today's edition of _Times_?"

He nods, automatically.

"Have you been contacted by the Yard?"

Another nod.

"What is the planned course of action for tonight?"

The man gets the slightest splash of colour on his deathly pale cheeks, arises from the couch, and pour himself a glass of brandy.

"I have the 5000 pound, placed them in a suitcase. The storehouse is to be surrounded by police. Inspector Lestrade has promised us, that everything is under control. But... But just in case... Is there not anything you can do, Mr. Holmes? We are prepared to go to any measures, if only it will bring our Mary back. We would be obliged, if you would be there tonight," he says in a pathetic voice, that makes me feel very sorry for him and his wife.

Holmes nods.

"I promise to be there."

Mr. Ashton informs us, that he certainly knows of the shipping company "Morton". Mr. Ashton has on numerous occasions used the company to transport goods from his business in America to England, but then, a couple of months ago, he stopped because the company got worse and worse... Multiple ships had disappeared en route, so his cargo rarely showed up, and when it on occasion did, it was damaged. Yes, the company was not happy to lose one of their greatest clients. But he had not heard from the company since early September, when they had send him a threatening letter. Could Holmes see the letter? No, unfortunately it had been burnt – a long time ago.

I look at Holmes, who seems divided between contempt of the imbeciles surrounding him, and the obvious happiness he felt at the connection between the families and the company.

Had they reported the threat to the police? No, they had not thought it serious enough. (By this statement I feel my cheeks burn, and a sudden desire to knock his teeth out. This may very well be the reason why his daughter has disappeared, dammit! Holmes sees it, and holds my wrist firmly in an iron grip, forcing me to remain seated. While I am seething, he continues the interview)

What did the letter say? "Give us another chance … Or else!" or something like it, Mr. Ashton thinks. I look at Holmes, and we bid good-day, after Holmes has repeated his promise to be there the same night.

"Well... _Watson_," says Holmes after some time.

"Well, Holmes," I answer in a mock-deep voice.

"Shall we find a spot of lunch, and then inspect the storehouse ourselves?"

I nod, interested, and smile at him.

After a very brief lunch, (made even briefer, because neither of us were very hungry) we travel by coach to the docks.

"Holmes?"

"Uh-huh?"

"Do you think, that the bad guys and the girl (or girl_s_) might be in the storehouse?"

"I hardly think they would keep the girls here. This is most likely only a place they will use to the "negotiation". But it is however exceedingly probable that they have set out some sort of guard," he says. "We have to be very cautious."

I quickly look about me, and get chills down my spine.

How a place can seems so scary in daylight, is beyond me.

Storehouse 13 is a very tall storehouse, painted dark green/ black, with wooden boards covering the windows and, apparently, it had once covered the door too. The boards lies now, like chopped wood, in front of the door.

Were it not for this, then I would have thought, that the storehouse was completely deserted.

"Do you know who owns it?" I ask.

"A criminal persona, I bumped into last month. He is dead now. The place is now own by his questionable niece, who does not make use of it."

""_Questionable_" niece? Don't you think, she is his niece?"

Holmes sighs.

"Miss Dawson, let me rephrase my sentence: The place is owned by his niece, who er ejet af hans niece, who provides for herself in a questionable _manner_."

"Oh!" A _hooker._ Why didn't he just say? – But then again – he _is_ Sherlock Holmes.

"Indeed. All right. Someone acquainted with the uncle, or someone who knew about his death, must have recommended this place."

I nod.

"I will sneak over there, and take a look through the window. Stay alert while I'm gone. The guard is probably inside, but – in any case – he most likely carry a gun," he says bluntly. And disappear.

Typical!

Later he crawls back to me, still enveloped in the shadows. Even James Bond, wouldn't be able to do it as gracefully or silent. I have to resist the urge to applause him spontaneously.

"One guard. Riffle. No-one else. Nor any young ladies," he says.

I nod. "What are we going to do now, Holmes?"

"We'll pay a visit to the Yard and my old friend Lestrade."

"Okay!" I chime in excitedly. I wonder what he looks like? I remember reading him described as animal-looking.. Ferret or bulldog was it?

"But... It would probably be for the best, if you stay outside. Lestrade knows Watson, you see."

_**

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**_

Btw, "James Bond" is owned by Ian Flemming...

_**I hope I will be able to upload another chapter before Christmas ~ but no promises!  
**_**_(Chapter 7 will feature LESTRADE (now you're warned!))_**


	7. Helping hands

**(A/N) Thank you very much for the much needed poking! Sorry it took so long to update, I'm afraid I got distracted by the real world :(  
****I was recently warned that Thea is bordering on becoming another Mary Sue, and I'm afraid it's true, so I'll try to work on developing Thea's character. If I can, that is. ^^,**

**Disclaimer: All of you know, that I do not own the characters of Sir Arthur, so I'm not going to continue writing disclaimers. If you've seen something before, then I don't own it ;)**

* * *

CHAPTER 7 ~ HELPING HANDS ~

**_Holmes_**

I'm standing in the New Scotland Yard's entrance hall and ask the clerk behind the desk for Inspector Lestrade. The clerk (an unmarried mason with poor health) leads me to Lestrades office.  
I thank him and he leaves me outside the door on which I knock.  
"Come in," shouts the familiar voice. And of course I comply with his wish.  
He looks hesitant for a moment, until the good inspector recognizes me, and the strained folds disappear from his face.  
"Oh, it's you, Mister Holmes," says the little man in a relieved tone.  
"Yes, I'm afraid so," I say apologetically.  
"Where is the good doctor? Not with you, I see?"  
"Dr Watson is waiting outside," I say, nodding toward the window. Lestrade turns around and look at "Watson," or Miss Dawson, on the other side of the street. She sits on a bench, reading today's Times, whilst chasing a pestilent pigeon away with her hands. The stubborn bird seems to wants to perch on Watson's hat.

While Lestrade chuckles at "Watson"'s poultry difficulties, I quickly flip through the evidence folder that lies on the desk in front of me. The person who Lestrade had expected to step into his office instead of me, must be a senior officer, sent to review the evidence before the great operation tonight, otherwise it would hardly be lying about. That would explain his relief.

According to the folder, the police have no evidence, that I have not even have collected, except that they have discovered that the kidnappers probably have been inspired by a group of similar abductions in America two years ago. Hm. Maybe I should ...  
I put the folder down simultaneously with Lestrade is turning his head toward me. "Have you seen?" he laughs hysterically, pointing at Miss Dawson. The pigeon is now perched, and pecks in the hat, and "Watson" is frantically trying to shake it off, and when it fails, he runs confused up and down the street. I emitted a jovial laugh."So, to what do I own the pleasure of seeing you Mister Holmes?" He asks, eyes filled to the brim with mirth."Watson and I merely happened to pass by, and I just popped in to inform you that Mr. Ashton has asked me to be present at the "operation" tonight, and that I will be there accordingly," I say.  
"That is very considerate of you, Mister Holmes. Was there anything else you wanted?"  
I shake my head, and tip my hat. "Good-day, Lestrade!"  
"I will see you tonight," he reminds me, and turns back to the window to observe "Watson."  
I repress the urge to laugh, as I close the door behind me.

_**Thea/"Watson"**_

That _bloody_ pigeon!

Wait a minute...

Holmes is walking across the street, heading towards me, with a smirk on his face, and his cane thrown over his shoulder. Is he completely oblivious to my misery?

"BLOODY PIGEON!" I shout wildly at the obnoxious ball of feathers, and it _finally_ retreats. Holmes stands next to me, and begins to brush my hat.

"Did you leave _breadcrumbs_ on my _hat_?" I ask indignantly. It was his fault!

"Yes. I needed something to distract the good inspector," he states very matter-of-fact.

I glare at him menacingly.

No apology, no compliment, _nothing_! But, to be fair, he is _Sherlock Holmes_, what did I really expect?

It annoys me anyway.

"Did you discover anything useful?" I ask him still pouting.

"I did. I have also discovered what my next step must be. I cannot bring you along, so you will return to Baker Street." I nod. "Did you really want to accompany me to the operation tonight?" he asks.

He doesn't sound as he care very much for the idea.

"I'd like to, but do _you_ want _me_ to come with you, Holmes?"

"I can see no harm in it – as long as you promise to do _exactly_ what I ask of you, and carry out my orders to the letter." He looks me straight in the eye to see if I agree to follow his terms . Then, finding what he sought, he looks me over: "You should not appear as Watson tonight," says he. "Find some dark clothing before I return for you."

He cries out for a cab, and I seat myself in it. He pays the cabbie on my behalf. "To Baker Street, " As the cab takes, off, I turn my head, and watches as Holmes enter a cab of his own.

_**Thea ~ approximately 6 pm**_

Some time later, I find myself waiting for tonight to arrive. I'm slung across the sofa, trying to read a book. Only trying, because I can't really concentrate on anything besides the thought of Miss Ashton being hold prisoner somewhere. It must be horrible. Poor thing.

I throw the book aside, and reach for the morning Times instead, which is lying on the floor. I flip through the pages until I see the ad in "the Agony Column."

I read the ad several times, but I just _can't_ find any hidden messages or clues... Well, who am I kidding? If there was anything hidden in the ad, then Holmes would have found it – _obviously!_

I lay the paper back down on the floor, and I start pacing the living room. When I approach Holmes' desk, I am hit by a sudden curiosity. What's in it? I know that Holmes asked me to stay away from it, but I can't help myself from examining the stuff on the desk. There's no-one here and Holmes will never know, so why shouldn't I?

There are thousands of notes and sheets of papers on the desk, all written by a masculine hand – Holmes' I presume – and all sorts of unusual things. Different pocket watches is laid out in a neat row. Some of Holmes' chemical experiments is also on the desk. I lift some papers, that has a mysterious bulge. What's under them?

Oh my God! Is that a revolver?

I cover up the gun once more with the papers, and make sure not to touch anything else. That is, until I see the drawer, and I can't help myself. My fingers almost automatically pull it open.

I gasp involuntarily.

I felt I was intruding in Holmes' private life by finding his gun, but this is ten times worse.

Inside the drawer, in a open leather case, a syringe lies.

_**Holmes**_

As the cab arrives at Pall Mall, I pay the cabbie and walk down the street to my destination.  
I stand outside of "The Diogenes Club."  
I nod to the man at the door and show him my calling card. The man nods acknowledgedly at me and I stroll along the familiar corridor, which is surrounded by busts of ancient Greek philosophers, to The Great Room where I find a well known person sitting in his favourite armchair. I smile at him, and when he sees me, a smile spreads on his broad lips, that reminds me of the good old days. He raises his sizeable body from the depth of the armchair . I pat him on the shoulder, and nod towards The Stranger's Room, and he understands my silent request. Of course.

When I have led him into the room and closed the door behind us, he asks: "What can I do for you, Sherlock?" I presume this is not a social call. Tea?"  
"No thanks, I will not stay long. But I require your help," Mycroft nods, sits down and gestures with his hand to seat myself.  
"Is this "help" related with your resent abduction case, brother?"  
"Indeed. By the way, were you able to detect the owner of the shipping company?"  
"The name was an alias, Sherlock, but I have set people to take a look into the matter."  
"Thank you." That will most likely take a couple of days. "What I really came for was to hear whether you could remember anything about a two year old abduction case in America, that allegedly is very similar to my current case?"  
Mycroft sit awhile in thought, but answers.  
"In New York, 1888, a number of rich young women disappeared close to public places. There was demanded ransoms of approximately 5,000 pound sterling, and the exchanges was at desolate locations, a week following the abductions."  
So far it indeed sounds very similar.  
"What was the outcome? Were the perpetrators caught?"  
Mycroft nods.

"One of young women was - strong-willed. She managed to run away, but was caught almost immeadiatly after. She was killed and her body was thrown in a lake nearby. That was the reason they got caught. A murder leaves more clues behind for the police to find, than an abused woman could possible give them. "  
"Did the other ofrene get found in time?"  
"The exchange were carried out in a desolate part of town. A masked, armed man were present, and as planned, recieved the money and in return gave the girl's father a note that stated where the girl was. The masked man held the gun pointed at the girl's father, so police did not open fire until he was out of sight. The scoundrel knew the area and shortcuts , and could thus easily escape from the police.  
The young women were all drugged when they were found in the basements of empty houses scattered across the city. There were found seven victims besides she, who died. "

"Is there anything else of importance for the case you remember, Mycroft?"  
He shakes his head.  
"Then I bid you good day, brother mine, I have a criminal to catch," I state.  
"Farewell, Sherlock," he says. "I wish you a good hunt."  
I take my leave and returns to Baker Street in order to prepare for the evening.

* * *

**I hope that Mycroft isn't too OOC. I have described "The Diogenes Club" as a mixture between how I picture it and the Granada-version. Well, Mycroft has a enormous brain faculty, **_**that**_** is a fact universally acknowledged, and I've always imagined him as a living database of crimes and state secrets ^^,**

**He has the power to "set people to look into it," because he has many connections within the Secret Service, and he might even have a small group of persons, like Sherlock, a kind of equivalent to The Irregulars?**

**Next chapter will be put up soon.**

**Thanks for reading! 3**


	8. In these once familiar streets

**(A/N): Soo… I said it wouldn't be long until next update. I lied. I beg your pardon *bows theatrically* I know it's been long, but I hope you'll forgive me, because I've gotten myself a beta! Yeah, I know! So hopefully it will be much easier for you to read, **_**and**_** prettier too x)**

**This chapter is dedicated to my **_**awesome**_** beta ****TheThiefsDaughter****, who also came up with the idea for the title.**

* * *

CHAPTER 8 ~ IN THESE ONCE FAMILIAR STREETS ~

_**Thea ~ Approximately 9 pm**_

We have been standing outside the storehouse for an hour. Holmes has run back and forth to get an accurate feel of the area, while I lean my frame against a shadowy wall opposite the storehouse.  
However, suddenly, Holmes abruptly stops his perusal and darts to my side.  
Before I can ask him why, he puts a calming hand on my shoulder and whispers in my ear: "Be completely still. Someone's coming."  
I try not to move.

I can hear the footsteps as well now. They belong to one person. Can it be one of the kidnappers?  
I see him now. A man, dressed in black and wearing a mask takes his place in front of the storehouse and is standing ready to receive payment for his evil deed. What a scoundrel!  
It's almost 9 o'clock, and I can see a horde of people approaching the storehouse from the south. It's policemen and Mr. Ashton. Mr. Ashton says something to the policemen that makes them stay behind, while he goes forward alone. He carries a large bag. The abductor points a gun at Mr. Ashton as he continues to approach. The men are standing about three feet from each other now. I can't hear their conversation. The masked man waves the piece of paper in his left hand in Ashton's face and Ashton quickly opens the bag and shows the man the contents.  
The masked man must be satisfied with what he sees, because he hands the paper over to Ashton, takes the bag and runs away – right toward us.

Half of London's police force runs after him, but is too far behind to be able to catch up with him. Just as he runs past us, Holmes steps out from the shadows and pounces on the masked man, tackles him to the ground and holds him down with an iron grip.

London's finest appear immediately after and assist Holmes in keeping him down.

"Thank you, _mister_ Holmes," says a condescending voice. Who can it be but Lestrade? "Although I do not doubt that my men would have caught him, even if you had not been here."

Yeah right, I think ironically and snort.

Lestrade swiftly turns his head towards the shadowy place where I am standing. "What was that?"

"Does your imagination play tricks on you, Inspector?" asks Holmes him innocently.

The inspector shrugs his shoulders, and turns back to the kidnapper.

_**Holmes**_

I get up from the ground, and leave my catch to Lestrade's gorillas.

I brush the dirt from my clothes and then ask Lestrade: "What did the note say?"

The good inspector has obviously forgotten Mr. Ashton and my reminder makes him run back to Ashton. I tag along.

"Mr. Ashton," I ask. (Lestrade came first, but I'm in a considerably better shape than he, and thus am able to speak in complete sentences.) "What did the note say?"

He shows it to us. "Fleet Street 57, basement, Mary Ashton."

_Hmm. It is written by a left-han__ded man, with black ink. His "r" indicates the writer's violent nature, the "M" the writer's natural force. The paper is a very common brand that can be purchased anywhere in London. The note has a strong odor of oil, seaweed and tobacco. _Expensive_ Italian tobacco._

"Since ... we have ... caught ... him," puffs Lestrade. "It ... is possible ... that ... there ... will not oc-...-cur any ... further ... kidnappings!"

"I severely doubt that, Lestrade. There is more than one person at play in this game. It is a group of at least three people who have all received precise instructions as to what to do and when to do it. There is a criminal mind behind this. Someone has planned it all carefully out. You ought not rely on being able to get something useful out of the blighter over there. He is most likely generously paid off."

"How do you know that there is more than just that man? "

"He is right handed," I reply.

"What?"

"The note was written by a left-handed person. Therefore, there are at least two. And then there also needs to be one to watch over miss Julia Vainwright."

I look at Miss Dawson, and signal for her to come closer.

Miss Dawson places herself beside me.

"Who are you?" Lestrade asks her.

"He is with me, Lestrade. This is Mr. Thomas Dawson. You might call him Watson's substitute for tonight."

Miss Dawson nods to Lestrade.

_**Thea ~ Friday 17**__**th**__** of October 1890 ~ 1 in the afternoon**_

We came home late last night. I lie in my bed and stretch myself out. After being cross-examined by Lestrades people for 4 hours, I think it is okay that I'm totally exhausted. I yawn lazily.

But I'd better get up now. Maybe there has been a development in Holmes' case?

I walk over to a small table, on which a decanter and a small basin stand. I splash some water in my face and open the closet to find some clean clothes. I wince as I recall that my only choices in clothing are the dresses Mrs. Hudson left for me.

I eventually shrug, and pull a simple grey dress over my head.

I enter the living room where Holmes sits curled up in a chair. He turns his head toward me. "I had almost forgotten how you look in a dress," he says, almost wonderingly.

"So had I, before I came here," I say, while laughing.

Holmes smiles at me briefly, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes.

I had intended to seat myself on the couch opposite him, but I can see he's withdrawn into his own world. He seems ... almost _sad_?

He sits subdued and I feel like I am intruding on his thoughts, so I quickly murmur an apology to leave the room and go down to Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. I have, after all, not eaten properly for 24 hours.

I open the door to the room again half an hour later. I can see the outline of Holmes in the desk chair. His left arm is stretched out. He removes a leather strap and flexes his arm. Has he been taking...? Oh my god.

I see that he is lifting an object that catches the light, yet I'm unable to identify it.

I am about to sneak back downstairs to the kitchen, but I accidentally step on a creaky floorboard. Damn!

He doesn't turn around to face me, but I _know_ he has heard me even though he doesn't acknowledge my presence.

"Did you not think that I would notice that you had been rummaging through my desk?" Holmes then suddenly asks with coldness tinged in his voice.

I gulp involuntarily.

Holmes packs up the thing he was standing with and puts it back into the drawer. I approach him slowly. When I get behind his chair he says sharply: "Be gone, Dawson!"

The desk drawer is ajar and I see that the syringe is at the top.

"Holmes, you don't have to-"

"What else can I do? My mind craves action! I am able to do _nothing_ with this case now that one of the women has been found! Nothing for two whole days! I HATE it, when I'm forced to wait, merely because no action can be taken! Give me problems, give me work!"

He slams his fist hard onto the table. I jump with fright.

"Give me for once a mental equal; give me a meaning with my life!"

What on earth can I possible respond to that? I barely know the man.

"You still oughtn't take cocaine, Holmes," I state puzzled.

"_Miss Dawson_, this is frankly none of your business, I would be obliged if you were to stay out of it. You were to stay here until your leg had healed – it virtually has. You have exploited my hospitality for long enough!"

Exploited his hospitality?

"Well! If that's the way you see it!" I seethe affronted. "Do you know what, Holmes? One of the best changes that has occurred from 1890 to 2010 is that drugs have become illegal."

He ignores me.

I take a deep breath so as to calm myself.

"Holmes," I begin more quietly. "The cocaine is bound to destroy you eventually. To destroy your brain! What good would come out of meeting your "mental equal" if your mind is completely smashed and you're no longer able to tell the difference between a blacksmith and a teacher on their clothes?"

"Say no more!" he roars at me.

I lift my hands in the air to signal that I surrender.

"Whatever pleases you!" I retort.

What the hell is wrong with him?

I walk briskly into the guest room and gather my things.

"Leave my house!"

"I'm already going!"

I walk up to him, slap his face, turn my back on him, march out of the room, run down the stairs and slam the front door behind me.

Stupid, stupid MAN!

I turn to look at the front door. Maybe I was a little out of line? It is, after all, Holmes' own choice.

Maybe I _should have_ minded my own business, but he offended my dignity pretty deeply. I wanted to offend his. I sigh dramatically.

_Well done, Thea!_ The annoying voice within my head congratulates me. _You have just now, because of your incredible stupidity, succeeded in being tossed out of the home of the one person who may actually _be able to help you_!_ _Go back in there and-_

My thoughts are interrupted as two strong arms grab me from behind and someone holds up a handkerchief in front of my mouth.

It smells strange. Is it some kind of drug or something…?

Baker Street fades around me, and I pass out.

* * *

**So, my first cliffhanger… :D lovely. I feel positively **_**cruel**_**, mwuhahahah!**

**According to my beta, the title is a quote from **_**Sweeny Todd**_** (Johnny Depp/Burton-version).  
Full quote: "In these once familiar streets I feel shadows… everywhere."**

**BJtheOswaldfanatic: thank _you_, your review made _my _day ;)**

**virginia minten: Have you been reading my thoughts? Or my original draft for this chapter? Ö lol. I hope not everyone saw this coming, like you apparently did. Thanks for the input :D**


	9. Locked room

**(A/N): Thank yoooou for the nice reviews, I love receiving them 3 I tried to hurry, because of you nice people asked so prettily! :) (Don't laugh, this is me being fast...)  
This chapter is much shorter than usual, but it _has_ to stand alone. Thank you so much for reading!**

**Again, thanks to my Beta TheThiefsDaughter! 3**

* * *

CHAPTER 9 ~ LOCKED ROOM ~

**Day One**

_**Thea ~ Somewhere dark**_

I'm lying in an extremely uncomfortable position on something cold and disgusting. Can it be a floor? Then why is it spinning?

My head is pounding and I feel _sick_.

I slowly open my eyes, but the only thing I see is darkness. I blink my eyes violently, but my eyesight takes a long time to readjust to the darkness surrounding me.

I am lying on a concrete floor. I can discern that I'm lying on scattered straw. It smells horrible.

There is no doubt that I no longer am in Baker Street.

I feel soaking wet and cold. Where am I? Am I alone?

I listen as hard as I can, trying to hear if there is something in here with me. I hear something shuffling through the straw in the other end of the room.

"He-hello?" I stutter. "Is-is there someone here?"

Something causes the straw to shift once more and I emit a frightened sound. My hands are searching for a wall. I find one and follow it to a corner, where I slide down with my arms wrapped tightly around my legs while I shake with fear.

"Mary?" asks an unknown female voice uncertainly. "Is that you?"

"No," I answer, voice shaking. "My name is Thea. Thea Dawson. "

"Have _They_ captured you as well?"

I nod, without realizing that she is unable to see me in the dark.

Wait a minute ... Somewhere in my head a bell rings. It enhances my headache which is currently a hammer beating repeatedly against my skull.

"Are you Julia? Julia Vainwright?" I ask, my voice a groan. This feels like a migrane.

"How do you know my name? Are you one of _Them_?" she asks sharply and slightly alarmed.

"No, no, absolutely not," I protest weakly. "I helped the detective Sherlock Holmes with trying to find out where you and another girl - Mary Ashton - was. But ... I was abducted like you."

Julia is silent at first. But then she decides to believe in my story. The straw rattles again as she creeps closer. I can see the silhouette of her scrunched body now.

"You are friends with Sherlock Holmes. That means he will do even more to find us!" her voice is filled with hope. I don't want to destroy her hopes by telling her that I had a hefty argument with him just before I was captured and that I, in any case, have only known the man for three days.

Because I remain silent, she chooses to believe that I agree with her logic.

"Have you heard any news of Mary? You mentioned her. How is she? "

"She has been found in an abandoned cellar in Fleet Street. Alive, but severely injured. She has not begun talking yet. The doctor says that she will recover completely." _Physically_, anyhow...

Julia breathes a sigh of relief.

"Thea. I'm so frightened as to what _They_ might do… So frightened. _They_, _They_ ... did bad things to Mary, may-maybe it will happen to us as well ...," I can hear her teeth chatter. Is it of cold or fear?

"Where are we? And ... who are '_They_'? Are _They_ the ones who did this to us?"

She quickly hunches her back and draws her legs close to her body, but doesn't seem to dare answer me.

I take that as a 'yes'.

I hear the rustle of the straw, as she moves towards me and stops three feet away.

"I do not know where we are, just that we are underground. I was taken about ..." She thinks for a minute, but doesn't seem to remember.

"…5 days ago-" I tell her.

"No longer? I was drugged outside the opera I'd had been to with my fiancé. Very suddenly. The next thing I was aware of I was here. And I found _Mary_." she pronounces the name with care and fondness. "_They_ come with fresh water and dry bread once a day. It _is_ _Them_ who caught me." She suddenly bursts into tears.

I cautiously reach out for her. She accepts my hand and the offer of my support by crawling close to me and throwing her own arm around me

I tell her everything about Holmes' investigation and what I think of him. In return she tells me about everything from her life before this, about how Mary was dragged away and how terrifying it was to be left here alone.

We have talked for a long time and Julia's body heat calms me a little.

Julia is crying quietly. I realize that tears are leaving clean tracks across my own dirty cheeks and we sit weeping together because we realize the hopelessness of our situation.

If _They_ are still following their plan then Julia will be out of here and back to her family in about 2 days.

And then what about me? Who would be paying for me? _Holmes_?

I gradually fall asleep - despite the whirlwind of thoughts that are currently running through my head - comforted by the fact that Julia is here and that I am not alone. I'm sort of subconsciously surprised, because didn't think that I was able to sleep.

I wake up in the middle of the night by hearing a sudden sound. But there is nothing. Only darkness. Where am I? Where is Holmes? Watson? Mrs. Hudson? _Anybody_?

I throw up on the concrete floor, while Julia keeps my hair away from my face.

* * *

**No pretty cliffhanger today, bummer ;) But there's loads of sick though...**

**x-Pick'n'Mix-x: Your review made me laugh! "Holy cow," lol! 3 Glad you were surprised!**

**BJtheOswaldfanatic: Don't DIE! Here's chapter 9 *hands it over* _Purh-lease don't die! _But you can squeal all you like, lol! ^^,**

**WimspoonRotohih: Thank you! ^^, I'm glad you like the story, and - really - I'm very flattered that you like it enough to have_ dreamt about it_. I like you, lol xD**

**Amelia: Yeah, Holmes is very bipolar... He's wonderful and awesome, but he's _annoying as hell _at times ^^, I'm very glad you think I've nailed it, I was very worried that I was being too OOC... :)**

**Moonspun Dragon: Yes, it DOES! xD It's addictive! I gotta do _more_ of them, lol! ^^, (Imaginary cookie goes to you for reviewing on my birthday!)**

**TheThiefsDaughter: Thanks a lot, darling x)**

**W.R6597: You don't have to call me God, but thanks ;) Nah, I'm just kidding, thank you for reviewing ^^, 3**

**Will try to hurry up with the next chapter :)**


	10. Shadowy silence

**(A/N): I'm terribly sorry for taking so incredibly long time to update, but I have been plagued by a writer's block the size of Utah, and had I not had the good fortune of having a frenzied beta armed with a pointed stick, I probably would have given up by now. So thank you very much for the advice, beta-ing and death threats TheThiefsDaughter ^^,**

* * *

CHAPTER 10 ~ SHADOWY SILENCE ~

**Day two**

**Thea ~ Saturday 18th of October 1890 ~ sometime during the day**

Julia's head rests on my shoulder. She is still asleep. I stroke her hair absentmindedly. I take a close look at her – This is the first time I'm able to make out more about her than just her silhouette (maybe my eyes have grown accustomed to the darkness?) Her face is youthful, and even though I know that she is around my age, she looks like she's much younger than her years as she unconsciously scoots closer to me. She has bags under her eyes, and even in her sleep her brow is furrowed. She trusts me completely (even though she has only known me for a couple of hours) but she's still scared out of her wits for what is to come. _Like me_, my mind adds.

She has – or had, more like – a long mane of blond hair (it has become quite discoloured from dirt and lack of care. As I inspect her hair closer, I even think I see some streaks of silver.) Her dress is dirty and torn at the hemline. I feel a strange mingling of pity and respect for this girl. She has already been through so much!

I wonder what day it is now. The ad in the Agony Column said she'd be "bailed out" the 19th. Doubt begins to enter my mind: Will I be able to cope without her? What will I do when she's gone?

She is still asleep and leaves me with nothing else to do but dwell on dark thoughts in the shadowy silence.

**Holmes**

Mrs. Hudson – who has not deigned to speak a single word to me ever since she discovered the empty state of the guestroom yesterday – angrily, yet gracefully, opens the living room door whilst balancing a silver tray.

The woman glares daggers at me, but silently hands me a note from my brother Mycroft.

"_Thank you_, Mrs. Hudson," I say in a polite – albeit slightly exhausted – tone. The housekeeper huffs indignantly.

"_Dear Sherlock," _the note says.  
"_My men have discovered that the shipping company Morton is owned by a Mr. Robin Hadley, a previous common merchant who has established quite a personal fortune by trading in the West Indies. It seems the old man has recently retired and let his nephew, Mr. Andrew Hadley take care of his company. The younger Hadley is believed to possess a vast gambling debt, which – according to my men's report – as of yet is a fact still unknown to his uncle.  
__I wish you – as always – a fruitful hunt.  
__Mycroft."_

In the nooks and crannies of my mind, I connect the information, and sense a well-known pattern forming. Gambling, extortion, kidnapping; all acts of crime carefully planned and thought out by a brilliant criminal mind. Actually, a very specific brilliant criminal mind.

I grind my teeth and curse under my breath.

**Thea**

At some point, that feels like many hours later, I hear heavy footsteps outside the door. _Thump, thump_. Suddenly the door opens and light floods in. I shield my eyes from the brightness with my arm. As I take down the arm, I see a dark shadow outlined against light. It approaches us and I can feel my body tremble with fear. My tremor awakens Julia, who screams as she notices the Shade is bending over her. It places a hand over her mouth, grabs her hair and drags her out of the room. I look after them with a scream lodged in my throat. I wonder if I'll ever see her again. I cannot make myself move as I am paralyzed with terror.

**Holmes**

I rummage through my room in search of the shaggy pair of shoes I recall discarding in a heap of costumes on the floor, after the successful conclusion of the McPherson-case.

Ah! There they are!

I am looking out of the bedroom window as I notice a familiar figure making his way down Baker Street. I retreat to the living room and seat myself in a comfy chair, ready to receive him and hear the news he brings.

Mrs. Hudson shows him in. I ask him to be seated but he refuses.

"Mr. Holmes," nods the Inspector in greeting. "Lestrade. Has there been any development?" I ask patiently.

The Scotland Yard inspector frets slightly but continues after a moment of hesitation.

"Miss Ashton has just regained consciousness this morning and has given her statement. There are some quite important points that I felt compelled to share with you," he says seriously. Silently I urge him to continue.

"Miss Ashton has been raped."


	11. Clues

**(A/N): Thank you so much for the nice reviews – keep 'em coming, keep 'em coming…please? **

* * *

CHAPTER 11 ~CLUES ~

**Day three**

**Thea ~ Sunday 19th of October 1890 ~ early**

I have been alone for some time now. Julia hasn't returned, and I doubt that she will. It is selfish, but I wish that she'd just come back.

I feel weak and pathetic, which makes me so_ disgusted_ in myself. I'm curled up in a ball in the corner farthest from the door.

I feel dirty, the dirt stick to my skin, my hair. It feels like it won't ever allow itself to be removed. My hair sticks to my forehead and I can't brush it away. It makes it difficult for me to think. If I could think then maybe I would be able to discover a way out of my predicament.

What have I done to deserve this? What is the meaning behind it all? Do I not deserve some happiness?

Lack of food and dehydration make my eyelids heavy. My head swims with different conflicting emotions. My eyes eventually shut tight, but I can't sleep.

**Holmes**

I am stooping over my chemistry table with the note Mr. Ashton received clutched in my hand. I dip the paper in several fluids and subsequently scrape the surface with a sharp scalpel. I burn the shavings and the small flame turns green.

Aha!

Thus, my analysis of the note is completed.

These are some of my deductions:

- It contains a high concentration of salt which means that the rogue holding the note was in contact with salt water and leads our investigation towards the docks.

- There was a minimum of fish scale residue on the paper, which may indicate that the rogue is either working with fish, or has had recent contact with fish which once more points us in the direction of the docks.

- There is a single hair on the paper: long and blond. Hm. Judging by the length of it, it could be from a woman, but Mary Ashton is dark haired and Julia Vainwright's hair color is unknown to me as of yet. Maybe there are other captives, or perhaps there is yet another woman involved in this case?

This may prove to be necessary information for later. I plan to pay the Vainwright family - and hopefully Mr. Leroy - a visit before this evening's deadline.

As I arrive at the Vainwright's residence, Mr. Leroy is present. Excellent. My interview is taking almost the same shape of my interview with the Ashton family. I follow Mr. Leroy's every slight movement and by the conclusion of my interview, it has dawned upon Mr. Leroy that I wish for a privat word with him. When I bid the family goodbye Mr. Leroy follows me into the hall. I retrieve my hat, gloves and stick and ask Mr. Leroy to accompany me.

We walk side by side away from the townhouse and, at a suitable distance from the house, Mr. Leroy asks what it is I want.

"Leroy, as I have always had the impression of, these series of abductions are connected to your company – Morton's shipping company – and I have recently had this conjecture confirmed. Miss Julia's connection with the company is you. You must either have had something to do with the kidnapping, directly or indirectly. Logically this means that you are keeping something concealed from me. Tell me now for the sake of Miss Julia," I urge him.

He looks like he is confused, so I press him further by sharpening my voice: 'Well, Leroy. What will it be?"  
"Are you quite sure that someone from Morton is involved?"  
I do not even deign to answer. He reads my attitude in my face. "I did not... I never imagined ... _He_cannot possibly-"

"Who is he, Leroy?" I ask impatiently.

"I talked to somebody at work about Julia," he begins. "I think it was him who brought the subject of "women "on the table. I could swear that his eyes lit up at the sound of Julia's last name, but I thought no more about it. He asked me - as it were - some slightly intrusive questions such as - " he is silent. I nod my head to signal that he is to continue. "He asked me if she was related to _the_ Vainwright to which I replied 'yes', and then he asked about how long we had been engaged and whether she would receive a large dowry ... "  
"To which you answered ..?" I ask – again sharply.  
"" Quite large" or something like that, I think."

Leroy is foolish, but his incredibly obvious story suggests that he is a complete idiot.

"And you think it probable that your colleague might come up with the idea to abduct Miss Julia in order to usurp her parents' money - and as insurance - have the knowledge that the girl's parents could always use her dowry, if they could not pay the requested amount? "

"Those are your words, not mine, Mr. Holmes," Leroy answer.

I decide to indulge him and play along with his infantile lies.

"What is this colleague's name? And when did this conversation take place?"  
"Almost a month ago. The colleague's name is Charles Uttonwood, but I am not positive that it is him!" he answers uncertainly.  
"Are there others you may have mentioned your fiancé to?"  
"Maybe some of the people from the office? I really do not know. I cannot help you."

I let the lad go, but I follow him discreetly from behind. He leads me to a pub. Since he does not come out as two hours pass, I conclude that he has figured out that I am awaiting him, and has bolted through the back door of the pub.  
I walk past the telegram office on my way home to Baker Street. I enter and send a wire to my brother Mycroft.

BROTHER COMMA NEED INFORMATION REGARDING A MR. JOHN LEROY STOP CRIMINAL RECORD ETC STOP CAN YOU GET SOME PEOPLE TO UCOVER WHETHER THERE ARE SUSPICIOUS PERSON OR PERSONS EMPLOYED AT MORTON WHOM I OUGHT TO KNOW ABOUT QUERY SHERLOCK FULL STOP

Mycroft's many connections in the government and the intelligence service might assist me in my search.

* * *

…**And yes, yes, yes, ****TheThiefsDaughter**** I **_**promise**_** you a cameo by Watson in the next chapter ;-)  
To anyone else who may care: I promise **_**you **_**a longer and more action-packed upcoming chapter. Again, sorry for the wait you had to endure!**

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